


falling, catching.

by spirograph



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snafu grins, the glowing tip of his cigarette dancing as he laughs at the way Eugene's sunglasses sit halfway down his nose. Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes, contradicting his good spirits, and Eugene doesn't understand why he's here. It's equally impossible to understand why he wants Snafu to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling, catching.

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-series. 
> 
> Many thanks to [Jen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/augustbird) for her input.

It's an ordinary Thursday afternoon when Snafu materialises on Eugene's front lawn, all rough curls and a scruffy shirt patched with leather at the elbows. There's a clumsy hug followed by uncomfortable glances and then hours spent trying to work out what to say. The scent of wood chips clings to Snafu's clothing and it gets caught on the breeze, blowing right into Eugene's face and creeping up inside his nostrils until it's the only thing he can smell, eclipsing the calming scent of pipe tobacco and summertime. All of sudden he feels overwelmed, jittery, like he's perched at the top of a great precipice, nervously awaiting heavy hands to give him a final shove. 

Snafu grins, the glowing tip of his cigarette dancing as he laughs at the way Eugene's sunglasses sit halfway down his nose. Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes, contradicting his good spirits, and Eugene doesn't understand why he's here. It's equally impossible to understand why he wants Snafu to stay.

Eugene's mother brings them sideways looks and glasses of iced tea to drink beneath the largest tree in the yard, condensation dripping over their fingers and onto the grass; Eugene watches the droplets move, squints to try and focus as they melt away, sliding toward the soil to disappear. 

Dinner is an anxiously grasped napkin, breath held in tight, Eugene's heart thudding like a jack-hammer in his chest as he waits for the inevitable talk of war. It never comes, and Eugene can feel the relief rolling off Snafu's body in waves, his shoulders relaxing as half-melted ice cream is placed before him in a delicate glass bowl. Shovelling it into his mouth he hums his approval and Eugene doesn't find it endearing, doesn't find it attractive, but he watches polished silver slide over Snafu's lips and his heart skips at the quick-flash of pink that licks the spoon clean. Memories of metal glimpsed in moonlight, through the rain, cloud his thoughts and inwardly he curses his brain for its betrayal. There is nothing about that which is worth remembering, especially not the constant ache of craving, of fingers finding his own in the dark and squeezing while enemy shells rained from the sky. 

Later, there's the awkward shuffling of feet and offering of spare clothes and Snafu saying, “No, it's okay. Sledge, it's oh-kay,” drawing out every single word as he gestures to his worn duffel bag, trying to make a point. Eugene forces a smile, cheeks burning with the strain because no, it's really not okay, he can hardly breathe and it's completely unjustified, turning down the covers of the guest bed like a good host and feeling like he's trembling all the way down to his bones.

And it's probably ridiculous, but he sits in his bed, forehead pressed to the wall and swears he can hear Snafu breathing in the next room, can feel the way the house creaks and cracks and accommodates him, his lifetime of experience and all of the things that they've shared. He wonders if the house can stand it, if the wooden beams and cement foundations can expand and settle and take the weight of their combined nightmares for an entire week. 

Eugene drifts into sleep to the sound of his heart beating in desperation against his ribcage, consumed by a fantasy of breaking down thin walls, demolishing the entire world just to fall back into the safety net of crowded darkness and Snafu's light snores puncturing the heavy weight of silence.

~

They take a walk through the surrounding farmland, through a field full of memories that Eugene doesn't share. And it's almost predictable that Snafu knows how to make a daisy chain, pinching stems with blunt fingernails and hooking each flower to the next as he walks, ripping off petals and getting them stuck to the tips of his fingers, the cuffs of his sleeves. He doesn't wax lyrical but swears a blue streak in between confessions of what his life was like growing up in a world completely foreign to Eugene's.

Excitable, Snafu talks about something back in New Orleans and Eugene almost asks him if maybe he should get back to his job, go back to his hometown and family and far, far away from Mobile, because life is impossible to bear without the promise of violence and bloodshed to distract him.

Clamping his mouth shut he grinds his molars, tongues the roof of his mouth in an attempt to keep the words from spilling out. There's no easy way to deal with being preoccupied by the dark hairs on Snafu's arms as he waves them around during his explanation of falling into a creek as a child, of how the camp his family brought him up in taught him everything he needed to know.

(Everything and nothing – he clarifies sometime later, softly-spoken into a pillow that smells like cigarette smoke and sweat and the coffee he'd spilled earlier but hadn't bothered to mop up in time. _I joined the marines for food_ , he says, and Eugene's half asleep, half convinced he's already dreaming.)

Eugene can't stand himself, can't bear the loneliness that wells inside his chest at night. Running fingers over his own skin, testing the way it feels, he wonders what it is he really wants. For months he's been corner-bound at parties and community dinners, that conspicuous and unapproachable fly on the wall. It's not dancing he wants, and it's not layer after layer of brightly coloured taffeta pressed against every inch of his body; it's not the floral perfumes or the undercurrent of ill-concealed desire that floats toward and all around him. Eugene doesn't want any of it but he wants something; wants to climb to the top of the highest hill in Mobile and scream until his throat is raw and lungs ache from it. Goosebumps rise along his arms despite the heat and he stares at the ceiling, almost certain that Snafu is probably still awake, too. 

~

Time is spent perfecting the art of careful avoidance, the inconspicuous dodging of elbows and knees at the breakfast table, putting glasses of juice on mantelpieces and sideboards instead of risking the brush of fingers. Snafu watches closely and Eugene thinks he gets a whiff of sawdust; it's probably just his imagination. It's been days since Snafu arrived and Eugene knows he's been showering, knows because he's heard the faucet running down the hall and has pressed fingers to tearducts; has tried to imagine anything but the quick-trickling of water running all over heat-pink skin. 

They drive into town and Snafu buys another pack of smokes and a bottle of soda, twisting off the lid and pressing his ear to the rim to hear the fizz. Eugene thinks he understands, even the simple things are far more complicated than before, so much more precious, even if they're ridiculous.

Shoes scuffing along the ground he can't help watching the way Snafu's Adam's apple bobs as he drinks, droplets of sweat shining at his hairline. He can't stop staring and it's all a mess because Snafu's always staring back, always there waiting to catch him out when he's trying – and failing - to be subtle about it. This isn't the man he went to war with, Eugene decides, this is someone else entirely, and what he feels is new and overwhelming and absurd. 

(he conveniently forgets about all the time he spent watching Snafu through wet lashes as the heavens threw heavy rain at them for days. Forgets about blessed sunshine and pale skin and light-pink slivers of scars; the way Snafu's belt cinched into his too-thin waist as he looked away from him, toward the sea; the way Eugene smoked his pipe, dragged the soft lead of his pencil down the page but wrote nothing at all – just watched as, for once, Snafu didn't watch him back.) 

In the afternoon they visit Sid and Mary. Snafu stares at them through squinted eyes, creases of a frown spreading across his forehead like he's trying to figure them out. And Eugene understands. He realises then that they are both so much alike, sitting on the border of a world that they can no longer comprehend, toeing the waters but never quite getting wet. And maybe Eugene's not waiting for someone to push him forward, but drag him back instead. He remembers the ghost of hands scrabling at his anorak, slipping in the rain, trying to stop him from doing something foolish. 

He remember it so vividly that it itches all afternoon, right between his shoulderblades. 

~

Sheets of summer rain fall against the windowpanes, cluttering up the silence with an unending hiss. Snafu flicks his way through a stack of books, touching his fingertips to images of birds and reptiles, shaking the quiet with questions that have little relevance to anything, ashing his cigarette into a small porcelain cup. 

Eugene feels as if they're stuck in a bubble of unreality. Time has slowed, has almost stopped as Snafu blinks drowsily once, twice, three times in his direction. His hands itch for a pencil; for a reason not to equate this passing of time to the way he'd waited for the war to end. Lips curling back to reveal his cocoa-stained teeth, Snafu grins and lies back against overfluffed throw pillows, arm awkwardly angled as he drags from his cigarette. 

Between the hiss of the rain and the soft swish of pages, Eugene wishes he had the courage to stand up and fetch the sketchbook lying on the table beside the front door. His talent for drawing anything beyond avian wildlife is limited but that doesn't deter him from wanting to put pencil to paper and copy down Snafu's profile, the arch of his eyebrows and the lazy slope of his mouth. He'd felt like this on Peleliu, before Okinawa had crushed his faith, the urge to capture the strange shape of Snafu's smile, the impossible emptiness in his eyes. Eugene's faith is still rusty, but in that moment he sees God written in every single line on Snafu's face.

The day ends wishing each other goodnight on the landing outside his parent's bedroom and Eugene wonders why the fast-thudding of his heart has made his chest so tight it's hard to breathe. Lying in bed and biting into his knuckles he feels his stomach fall away, unbarable desire threatening to undo him. His dreams are of war, skewed in a way he doesn't remember them ever being before, like someone has taken an eraser and scrubbed away the point, replacing it with empty space and a caricature of Snafu that won't move out of his way. Snafu moves in close, whispers to him in a voice so low Eugene can hardly hear it; he tells Eugene he wants him. But his dreams are so much like reality now, never giving him what he wants, and he wakes up close to dawn more frustrated than he can bear, stilled by the nearby crack of wood as Snafu's window gives and budges open just enough, Eugene supposes, to allow him room to smoke. 

~

Everything changes. Spreading jam over toasted bread Eugene tries to ignore the look of concentration on Snafu's face, the way his gaze cuts through the air like a well sharpened knife, his eyes trained solely on Eugene. 

On the lawn, Snafu removes his shirt and bundles it into a ball, sprawls himself out in the morning sun with a cigarette dangling from his lips, like a dragon, smoke drifting up toward the sky. It's three weeks into summer and it's almost like a new world outside, with too-green grass and sunshine that prickles at Eugene's fair skin through the cotton of his clothes. The words of Eugene's book all blur together, an unfocused jumble of letters that dance over the page as he peers sideways to trace the pointed curve of Snafu's hipbone and the shadow where it dips down past the loose waistband of his trousers. 

Snafu stays quiet for a full hour, wiggling his bare toes and puffing away on cigarette after cigarette, tapping the ash into a neat pile on the grass. Eugene doesn't remember the silence being so thick in the Pacific, heavy on his tongue like a meal he cannot bring himself to swallow. On Okinawa it had been thin and fragile, so close to his skin that he didn't dare move in case it shattered. Snafu had watched him, then, had tiptoed around him for the very first time. All of his complaints suddenly dried up, or washed away like the landslide of mud at the edge of their camp. Eugene hadn't admitted it then, how desperately he'd needed Snafu's voice, just a word or two to put some distance between the brittle shell holding him together and all that awful silence. He'd been so angry – but he hadn't realised any of that until much later, until he was alone on that homebound train, chewing up the miles with the sound of machinery filling in for all the goodbyes they never had the opportunity to exchange.

When night falls Eugene can smell the purfume his mother always used to wear when he was younger; it clings to the furniture and finds him drowsy, head lolling back on the living room couch and waiting for Snafu to come back inside. She says, “We're going out for the evening,” and he can't think of the last time they left him in the house all alone. Snafu appears at the doorway and Eugene's mother turns and smiles, pats him gently on the arm before leaving. Eugene listens to the sound of gravel under tires as it fades and Snafu's lopsided grin fills his view. 

The evening heat closes in, makes the house stuffy and so uncomfortable that the only solution is to surrender and retreat, relief found in the cooler air on the back porch, a chilly bowl of ice cream resting in Eugene's lap. The ice cream slides cold down his throat, licks a freezing trail all the way to his belly. Chocolate sauce oozes from the corner of Snafu's lip, drips from his chin and back into the bowl settled between his thighs. There's soft laughter and eye-rolling and then the slow swipe of tongue over chocolate covered lips, followed by the unnerving desire to reach out and touch. 

Eugene rests the pad of his thumb against the swell of lips before he can really think it through, eyes falling closed when Snafu sucks it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the knuckle, over tiny creases and ridges. Sticky humidity clings to Eugene's body, prickles feather-light across his back, his shirt too close to his skin. The hot suction of Snafu's mouth is a kind of heaven he never knew existed and he eases another finger into it, savouring the swirl of tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth. His sigh is swallowed up by the thick night air and the sudden clatter of his spoon hitting the ground and ringing out through the dark.

There's no turning back; he realises this as his other hand connects with Snafu's thigh, gripping tight to try and stablise himself. The entire world is collapsing. Eugene's fingers slip from Snafu's mouth and he's suddenly so hard it hurts, trying to regain some kind of composure because this shouldn't be happening; wet fingers pressing against Snafu's jaw, dropping down over the contour of collarbone and leaving shimmering wet marks in their wake. 

The rumble of an engine signals the homecoming of his parents and Eugene doesn't know how he'll face them, full body flush threatening to set him on fire and Snafu knocks the air from his lungs by leaning forward to kiss him, breath a complicated mix of chocolate sauce and cigarettes and the promise of more to come. There's still sauce on Snafu's face when he grins at Eugene's mother a few minutes later, dark spots all over his teeth and she laughs, soft and restrained. Eugene wants to punch him, wants to drag Snafu down onto the wood panelled ground and fist handfuls of curls tight enough to cause pain. Not long ago he'd felt desire, a quick flood of heat for schoolgirls and then once - once a slow unfurling burn of want for a boy who had raced him to the tops of trees with grazed knees and candy painted lips. But never this kind of heartsinking need; need that crawls beneath his skin, edging its way out through his pores like honey until everything feels saturated and uncomfortably close. His parents say _goodnight, goodnight_ , the scent of sweet wine encircling them as they head toward the stairs, and Eugene watches Snafu watching them as they go.


End file.
